


Charm Offensive

by annabellelux



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Baz is “Plotting”, Canon Divergence, Every vampire cliche in the book (literally), Excessive Pining, Getting Together, Humor, I’ll send Baz a fruit basket for his troubles, M/M, Misunderstandings, Responding to romantic feelings with violence, Sexual Tension, Simon is clueless, Simon’s behavior is beyond unacceptable but we stan nonetheless, Thrall - Freeform, Watford Eighth Year, this fic is absolutely feral and I'm not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29432451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabellelux/pseuds/annabellelux
Summary: Simon Snow’s finally figured out why he’s so preoccupied with Baz: why he’s following him around to his football practices, why he’s watching him while he sleeps, why he can’t stop thinking about him…There’s no other explanation: Baz has thralled him!
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 24
Kudos: 231
Collections: Snowbaz Sweethearts Fic Exchange 2021





	Charm Offensive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waterwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterwings/gifts).



> charm offensive (noun): a calculated campaign to use one's personal charm to gain favor
> 
> My dearest @waterwings, it has been an absolute honor to have you as my Valentine. Your talent amazes me & your personality dazzles me. I adore you and could not ask for a better person to write for. You wanted a thrall fic, and I’m preeeetty sure this is not quite what you expected me to do. But I hope you enjoy it anyways! 
> 
> Thanks to my lovely betas @ninemagicks & @scone-lover for their help! 
> 
> Also, some British things I know are going to hit my fellow Americans different:  
> Lynx body spray: Axe body spray  
> torch: flashlight

**Simon**

Baz darts across the football pitch like a lightning bolt, like a natural phenomenon, just barely within the realm of possibility. He's ruthless out there, outpacing and outmanoeuvring everyone else on the field, an absolute champion player. 

You'd think he'd be too busy playing to spare me a cocky smirk. But you'd be wrong. 

I growl in response, but he's already turning his attention back towards the goalkeeper. "He's such a prat," I complain to Penny. "He never gives anyone else a shot on the pitch. Fucking selfish." 

"Mmhmm," Penny says, turning a page of her Magickal history book. 

"He's only any good because he's a vampire. It's so unfair that he uses his speed and strength for football. I can't believe no one  _ sees  _ it—even though I've told them all! Don't they care that he's  _ cheating?!"  _

"Uh-huh." 

"He's such a miserable bastard. I can't believe Agatha fell for his whole…" I wave my hands around vaguely in his direction, "thing." 

"Tragic." 

I take my eyes off Baz to glare at Penny. "Y'know, you could  _ pretend _ to care." 

"Oh, Simon." She sighs, finally looking up from her book. "I  _ do _ care. That's why I eased up on my no-more-stalking-Baz rule, since I know you're not taking the break up very well." 

"I'm not taking the break up very well because it's all Baz's bloody fault." 

She purses her lips the way she does when she's planning on giving me the cold hard truth. ( _ Her  _ version of it, anyways.) I resist the childish urge to cover my ears. "That's not what Agatha said," Penny replies matter-of-factly. 

"Agatha said she wanted to explore other options for her life!  _ Baz _ is her other option!" 

"I also recall her saying that neither of you are ever on the same page, and that you spend all your time obsessing over Baz." 

"Exactly," I respond. "And that's Baz's fault, because he's an evil, plotting, good-for-nothing vampire." 

Penny huffs and rubs at her temples, the way she always does when her patience is wearing thin. "Have you ever considered that not everything is about Baz?" 

"Obviously I know _ everything  _ isn't about Baz," I reply, staring at his dashing figure on the pitch. "Although... he really likes to insert himself into every aspect of my life." 

Penny scoffs quite rudely and slams shut her book with a loud finality. "Okay, nope. I love you dearly, but I've reached my limit. I'm going to be in the library—feel free to join me when you're done inserting  _ yourself  _ into  _ Baz's  _ life." 

"I—I'm not—but he—" I stutter as she stuffs all of her belongings into her bookbag and begins to stomp away. "Penny!" I call to her retreating form, but she only responds with a wave of her hand. She doesn't even bother turning around to face me. 

I groan into my hands at the unfairness of my life. 

I don't know why Penny doesn't see how necessary this surveillance is! Baz is clearly plotting something—he always is! Just last month he spelled the window to smack me in the face every time I try and open it! And now he's stolen my girlfriend! 

Sure, I know Agatha and I had other problems—Penny's not wrong about that. But she didn't see how  _ smug  _ Baz was when Agatha broke up with me. Agatha had done it in an empty corridor during lunch period two weeks ago, and after we went our separate ways, I ran right into him eavesdropping around the corner. 

He wasn't even the least bit sheepish over his rudeness. (Of course he wasn't.) 

"Trouble in paradise, Snow?" he challenged, cruel delight dancing in his grey eyes. He was practically vibrating with satisfaction. 

"Fuck off," I said. I was in no mood for his taunting, but he wasn't feeling benevolent. 

"Wellbelove got tired of your  _ constant distractions, _ hm?" he asked sarcastically. He had clearly heard every word of her dumping me—Agatha had used that exact phrase. "Free piece of advice: a good boyfriend doesn't ignore their significant other. It makes the person feel trivial." 

_ Well, isn't he just the king of 20/20 hindsight, _ I thought. 

"How would you know?" I snapped. "Can you even kiss a girl without tearing her apart with your fangs? No one would be self-destructive enough to go near you." 

He raised a single cocky eyebrow at me. "I'd bet Wellbelove would be more than happy to test the theory out with me.”

He left me there in the hallway seething alone, having strutted off with a sly grin before I could find my words. 

I realised then that he had orchestrated our breakup somehow. 

I just need to prove it, and then Agatha will take me back, and everything will be back on track.

I see the football team break for the day, snapping me out of my bitter memories. They all start heading to the locker room; I follow discreetly, careful to keep a bit of distance between me and the players. 

Slowly, I see Baz's teammates start to trickle out, alone or in groups of two or three. My hiding spot behind an oak tree isn't quite as covert as I'd hoped it would be, seeing as Dev and Niall shoot me matching glares when their gazes flicker over to me. (Well, it's not like my antagonism with Baz has ever been a  _ secret.  _ Surely everyone already saw me perfectly well in the stands, anyways.) 

After a half hour of waiting, it seems the entire team has cleared out—everyone except for Baz. 

I huff in annoyance, kicking the base of the tree. Figures he'd take the longest time out of all the blokes. He's a bloody bathroom hog; he probably steals all the hot water in the locker rooms as well. 

But as thirty minutes becomes forty-five, my mind starts spinning with other possibilities. What could be taking him so long? Could he be hiding something in his locker—dark magic? Something evil his family gave him so he could finally best me? 

My impatience builds until I can't take it any longer. I stomp over to the locker room doors, throwing them open and marching inside. 

The air is humid and stuffy, heavy with the sickening smell of sweat drenched in an abundant amount of Lynx body spray. I hear the sound of a locker opening around the corner, and I ball my fists instinctively as I walk towards the noise. 

I don't know why I don't expect the sight in front of me—it  _ is  _ the locker room, after all.

Baz is standing with his back to me, bent over with his head in his locker, in just his pants. 

I make a humiliating sound, a hybrid between a squeak and a yelp, and he whips around to face me. Shock colours his expression, pinkness tinting his cheekbones, before his face sharpens into a glare deadly enough to put Medusa to shame. 

"What the fuck do you think you're doing here?" he barks. 

"I—I was—you—" I can't see how I'm supposed to form a coherent sentence with Baz standing half-naked in front of me. 

I've never seen Baz undressed. The most indecent thing I've ever seen him in is his football kit—tight as those shorts are—but that is  _ nothing _ compared to the scene in front of me. His briefs are form-fitting, leaving very little to the imagination. His entire torso is on display, from his toned abs to his wide chest, and he's—Crowley. He's  _ fit.  _

(I mean—I always knew he was fit. I have eyes. But knowing and  _ seeing  _ are two different things.) 

"I asked you a question," he snaps, and I force my gaze to lift to his eyes. I hope beyond hope he didn't notice just how captivated I was by the sight of his body, but the narrowed, suspicious look he's giving me is telling me not to bet on it. "Or are you too busy invading my privacy to use your words?" 

"I didn't—that's not why I came in." I blanch—he  _ cannot _ think I came in here just to leer at him! "You—well, you were taking a really long time in here!" 

He raises a single eyebrow at me. (It's  _ slightly  _ less cool since his wet hair is sticking to his forehead, but not by much.) "As is my right. Football players are allowed unlimited access to Watford's gym facilities. Stalkers, on the other hand..." 

"It's not stalking, it's vigilance!" I try and defend myself—but, at the same time, I accidentally take another look down at his body. He's got a bit of chest hair, and the knowledge kicks me in the stomach. (With jealousy, I guess, since I don't have any yet.) 

"Yeah, I can see that." Sharp sarcasm turns his voice into a weapon. "You're truly vigilant in your quest to figure out whether I wear boxers or briefs."

_ Don't look down, _ I tell myself.  _ Don't you dare check out his pants. _

I look down. They're still briefs. 

"But I—I know you're plotting something!" 

"You are absolutely fucking mental," Baz says, sounding at the end of his rope. "You'd think you'd been hit with a  **Dazed and Confused.** Your delusions truly know no bounds." 

He turns around to fish something out of his locker. I get another look at his arse as he does, straining against his pants, and I get the urge to grab him and— 

Jesus fucking Christ! What is happening to me? 

I feel like I've been caught by a fishing hook, like there's a wretched pull on my gut dragging me towards Baz. Like I'm defenceless against his gravity, like I'm helpless against my urges to follow him, to be near him, to touch him. Like he's made of magic, like I've been enchanted— 

_ Enchanted.  _

Aleister Crowley. 

This fucker has  _ thralled me.  _

I yank myself out of his enchantment with an unsteady step backwards. I trip over a bench and topple over, causing Baz to turn around and stare at me. He hadn't finished buttoning up his shirt, and I can still see his smooth skin peeking out— 

No— _ no.  _ I tear my eyes away from him and scramble to my feet. 

"Snow?" he asks, confusion lacing his tone. Like he doesn't know exactly what he's been doing to me. 

"Go fuck yourself," I snap. It's the wrong thing to say, because now I have a mental image going in my head, and— _ Merlin.  _

Baz's sharp expression melts into something laced with understanding, and a mixture of fear and longing seizes me by the throat. 

I don't care about how much of a coward I must seem like—I sprint out of the locker room, away from Baz and his devious influence. 

* * *

**Baz**

I think that Simon Snow has gone mad. 

He is under the deluded impression that I have something to do with his romantic troubles with Wellbelove. (I most certainly do  _ not,  _ though I'd be lying if I didn't admit I was thrilled to overhear their breakup.) I'm not quite sure why he hasn't considered that perhaps—just as Wellbelove explicitly stated—she wanted to end their relationship because he is far more wrapped up in his Chosen One destiny and his role as the hero to my villain than he is at being a half-decent boyfriend. If she's not willing to take Simon at his worst as well as his best, that's her problem.

Well, it should be her problem. Except that Snow has decided to make it  _ my  _ problem. 

Since they've split, he's decided to resume his bad habit of stalking me, which I thought he had permanently dropped back in fifth year. (I think Bunce made him stop after the voice recorder incident.) He can't catch up with me in the Catacombs—the only reason he managed it the one time is that I was drunk and miserable over my mother's birthday and looking for trouble. All he's seen me do is study and play football and go to violin lessons, but that hasn't dampened Snow's enthusiasm in the least bit. I think the man would have a happy future in surveillance work, considering how much satisfaction it seems to bring him. 

However, I've got to say, it must be against policy to follow a man into the locker room. 

I thank Merlin, Morgana, and all the dead martyrs that he didn't barge in earlier. A minute sooner, and he would've walked in on me starkers, and I think neither of us would've been able to live that down. Despite being roommates, we keep up Victorian standards of decency when it comes to states of undress; this is the first time he's caught me unawares. 

Though, I'll admit I probably would've allowed it sooner if I knew what reaction it would bring me. 

His shock was the first thing that registered—an absolutely ridiculous expression of surprise popped onto his face, as if he didn't know that changing happens in a  _ locker room.  _ Then panic, raw and visceral, turning me to stone in its presence. And finally, something new, something darker and more heady took over; at first, I thought he was going to lunge at me and try to punch me. I'm not sure what to call that emotion, but I've taken to considering whether it was lust. 

Absurd. The very idea of it is absolutely absurd. 

And yet, I play the image of his face over and over in my head like it's my favourite scene in my favourite movie. His expression, nervous and hungry and eager, as his eyes roamed my body. I feel myself go hot with yearning. 

My brain skips over the part where he ran away from me—didn't I do the same thing, when I first realised where the pull in my chest always led me? When I couldn't cover my ears any longer to his siren call, and I admitted that I was buried too deep in my love for him to ever dig myself out? 

He's already fast asleep with his covers bunching at his ankles when I finally come back to the room. After the locker room debacle, I decided to go hunting in the woods; since he's finally deigned it appropriate to give me some space, I thought I'd take advantage of it and catch more satisfying prey than rats. I drained three deer and then incinerated the evidence, leaving me blushing and warm as I crawl under my bed sheets. 

I let myself stare at Simon, illuminated by the moonlight shining through the cracked window. His eyes are fluttering the way they do when he's dreaming, and for the first time, I let myself hope he is dreaming of me. I hope he's been pulled into a reverie where I let my guard down and show him my heart. I hope he's found a place for us to be together, without the distance I've built between us with my steep walls or the expectations that have driven us apart. 

It's a far-fetched wish—silly and childish, a fantasy that's run away with me, much further than I should let it. But I allow myself this rare indulgence, just this once justifying my hope, as I drift off into sleep and my very own wistful dreams. 

* * *

My dream is charred to ashes by scorching sunlight and the smell of burning garlic. 

Harsh artificial light assaults my eyes when I make the mistake of opening them. I see the outline of a man standing above me, holding a torch and shining the light directly in my face. I sneer on instinct. 

I don't need my sight to know who it is. I can smell the tempting buttery scent of him, and even if I couldn't, there's only one person daft enough to risk losing a limb waking me when I'm asleep. 

"Snow," I growl, summoning a small flame in my palm. "Step back and get that infernal device out of my face, or I will incinerate you and dump your ashes out the window to the merwolves." 

"Anathema," he responds calmly, unaffected by my threat. 

I shut my eyes, but stars from the torchlight still dance behind my eyelids. It's not sunlight, thankfully, but it's certainly still uncomfortable to have beams of light directed right at my face.

"It would be worth the risk of expulsion," I sneer. "Eighth year is optional, and you're quickly persuading me that I should opt out." 

"This is a warning," he says, "for you to stay away from me." 

"I'm sorry," I respond sarcastically, all the warmth I had from my dreams of a sweeter, less suspicious Simon Snow burning away with the reality of morning light. "I'm failing to see how  _ you  _ constantly seeking  _ me  _ out is supposed to accomplish that goal." 

He finally steps away. I blink away the bright spots in my vision, allowing my eyes to adjust to our bedroom. I see a scowling Snow, with a bulky torch in one hand and a pan of burning garlic in the other. 

I feel fatally stupid for ever believing Snow could have any positive feelings for me.

"Thank you kindly for the wake-up call," I say, my tone drowning in derision (more for myself than for him), "but next time, I'll be more than happy to rely solely on my alarm." 

Snow opens his mouth to find his words, but I don't give him the opportunity to cut me further with them. I throw my covers off of me and stride to the restroom, slamming the door shut. I lock it with magic and cast a silencing spell so he can't torment me further. 

I try and let the steaming water warm me, but it's no use. I feel icy down to my core with the chilling disappointment of extinguished hope. 

* * *

It seems Snow's makeshift morning light and garlic routine was only Plan A. 

I thought Snow had dropped the vampire crusade. He certainly never stopped believing it—he still would make snide little comments, less-than-subtle references to my pale skin and nighttime escapades—but he seemed to have decided that running a "my roommate is an evil vampire!" campaign simply didn't fit into his busy schedule of playing guard dog for the Mage and barely passing Elocution by the skin of his teeth (and, very likely, by the Mage's intervention). 

But something has set him off. He's on high alert now, his eyes shifting to me every time I so much as walk into a room. His expression is openly mistrustful, like he thinks I might lash out and bite him at any moment. (Like, after all these years of resisting him, I'm going to simply snap and drain him in the middle of the Dining Hall in front of a hundred witnesses.) (Aleister Crowley, he's an extra-special  _ idiot.)  _

Now, he's declared open war. And his weapon of choice is every vampire cliché known to man. 

I walk into Magic Words to find every wall has been transformed into mirrored surfaces. The room resembles some sort of circus funhouse, minus the distorted imagery. I raise one eyebrow at my reflection, and see the image echoed across a dozen mirrors, my condemnation repeated in every direction, for everyone to see. 

Though, there's just one person I really need to see it. I catch his eye in a mirror, and see his frustration reflected in his balled fists and chagrined scowl. 

"Aren't we cocky, Snow?" I drawl, turning to face him head on. "You decided you needed to spend the whole lesson staring at your own stupid face?" 

"I—that's not why—no!" he splutters. 

"Next time, have your Mage take you on a trip to a carnival and save the rest of us the trouble." 

Snow opens his mouth to attempt a comeback, but is interrupted by Ms. Possibelf's yelp of dismayed surprise. I get a dose of vindication watching Possibelf all but read Simon the bloody riot act, but it's an unfortunately short-lived victory.

* * *

Snow finds it necessary to continue his attempt at a vampire exposé through our Magickal Creatures class. 

"Professor?" Snow cuts Professor Griffin off mid-rant about the mating practices of her wild pack of hippogriffs. I'm almost grateful for his interruption, until he opens his mouth again to say meaningfully: "I think, as a class, we should try and ride the hippogriffs over the river." 

Professor Griffin furrows his unibrow, but Snow doesn't catch it, because he's staring right at me. 

I don't give him the reaction he's clearly craving; my face settles into a stone mask, carefully indifferent. 

"No, Mr. Snow, I don't believe a practical demonstration is in order," Professor Griffin says dryly. "Not unless you can explain to me how you are planning on getting a saddle on a hippogriff  _ without _ getting your eye sockets ripped out by its talons." 

"Er…" Snow responds, making it abundantly clear he wasn't listening to a word that Professor Griffin has said during this entire lesson. (If he had, he would know that hippogriffs are notoriously impossible to domesticate.) (Honestly, you'd think he'd remember that from the time the Humdrum sent one in fourth year, but maybe he's too busy being an insufferable prat to keep track of his kills.) 

The class breaks into snickers. Professor Griffin seems ignorant to the reasoning of Snow's request, but everyone else knows what he must be playing at after his years of accusations and this morning's mirror stunt. 

Snow believes the myth that vampires can't cross running water. 

Griffin resumes his lecture, but I can no longer concentrate on his dull droning. I can feel the stares of my classmates at my back like daggers and smell Snow's bonfire magic polluting the air; my skin grows itchy with discomfort and resentment.

The lesson ends, and I let out an internal sigh of relief that Snow isn't clever enough to get into my advanced language course—I'll finally get an hour away from Snow's unwelcome attention. 

But I might as well leave him with something to think about. 

"I'll be taking a shortcut to Latin, boys," I say with a nod to Dev and Niall, purposefully loud enough to turn a few heads, not least of which is Snow's. "I'll see you at dinner." 

Without further explanation, I start sprinting towards the river. I hear Bunce let out a yelp of alarm, and I can't help the sharp smile that dominates my face. 

" **Float like a butterfly!"** I cast right at the last possible second. 

I feel my magic buoy me; I lose my sense of gravity as I soar across the stream, the sound of rushing water and my classmates' gasps ringing in my ears. I land with a graceful slide. As soon as I steady my balance, I turn to face my audience.

Snow's jaw has dropped to the floor, and his eyes resemble saucers. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he'd been hit over the head by a frying pan. 

I smirk in his direction, feeling momentarily smug that I've managed to daze him. I take an exaggerated bow for my peers before sauntering away from my theatrics. 

* * *

I take small bites from my plate of chips as I watch Snow and Bunce bicker with their heads drawn together. Snow's face has gone red with anger and Bunce is scowling with impatience. I wish I could eavesdrop on their heated argument, but we're on opposite sides of the Dining Hall, so the cacophony of student conversation has drowned out their voices beyond the capability of even my heightened senses. 

"Baz." 

Snow abruptly stands from his seat, clumsily knocking a pitcher of water all over his table.

"...Baz?" 

He storms away from the table, throwing open the double doors of the dining hall with stubborn determination. An exasperated Bunce chases at his heels, her short legs struggling to keep up with his long, single-minded strides. 

"Baz!" Dev yells, breaking me out of my concentration. I turn away from Snow's dramatic display. 

"Yes?" I respond coolly. Dev raises both his eyebrows. 

"Distracted?" he asks in a flat tone. 

"Forgive me for failing to ignore a public scene in the middle of the Dining Hall." 

Niall rolls his eyes. "You've failed to ignore  _ anything  _ Snow's been up to lately," he says, a hint of suspicion in his tone. 

I pick at a loose thread at the wrist of my blazer, feigning nonchalance. "Stalkers are hard to ignore. Getting attention is kind of their main objective, you know." 

"It's not like you discourage it, mate," Dev points out. 

"Victim blaming," I tut. "Toxic masculinity's a bad colour on you, Grimm.” 

Dev scoffs. "You're both blokes." 

"Still." 

Niall gets the conversation back on track. "You got him in a real knot after your stunt in Magickal Creatures. He was muttering to himself and leaking magic so badly he was thrown out of Botany." 

Dev lets out an exasperated sigh. "And yet, we could still smell him from the hallway." 

"We just want you to be careful. I know he's always chasing after you, but…. He just seems…  _ different _ ... this time," Niall says, and his tone is genuinely earnest. 

"Don't worry about me," I respond. I hide the fact that I'm pleased at my friends' concerns, affection warming me a bit. "I can handle myself against Snow." 

As if the universe is determined to prove me wrong, Snow comes storming back into the Dining Hall, making a beeline for my table. He's got a pearly marble basin I recognize from the White Chapel in his hands and a determined set to his jaw.

"Simon, don't—" Bunce warns, but he pays her no mind. 

I realise Snow's intentions too late. I drop my wand from my sleeve in a haste, but he’s already standing right beside me. 

He pours the entire basin of water over my head. 

I knock back my chair; in my rush to stand up, it topples backwards onto the wood flooring with a ringing clatter. 

The entire hall goes silent. 

Snow looks at me expectantly. As if he believes I'm about to melt like the Wicked Pitch of the West. 

"Snow," I growl, flicking my hair out of my eyes so I can glare at him. "You insufferable imbecile." 

Then I lunge. 

My fist catches the side of his jaw, knocking him off balance and wiping the stupid expression right off his face. I swing again and hit his cheekbone. But when I go for a third blow, Snow's ready for it, dodging my attack before launching one of his own: he quickly jabs me in the stomach, knocking the breath out of me. He takes advantage of my hunched-over position to punch me square in the mouth. I spit the blood pooling in my mouth right at him, and it lands on his chin. 

"What in the seven hells is your problem!" I snarl, shoving him away from me. 

"I know what you've been up to," he says, charging at me again. I deftly sidestep him, and he trips on his own arrogance. His face contorts into rage. "I figured out your plot."   
  


"Aleister fucking Crowley! Then you might want to let me in on it, because I have no idea what you're talking about!" 

He grabs me by my collar and shoves me up against the wall. He leans in close enough that I can feel his breath, hot against my face. His lips brush my earlobe as he whispers, "Just because the holy water didn't work, doesn't mean I won't find something to protect myself against you." 

A chill runs up my spine at the gravity of his tone. I still have no clue what he's going on about, but the smell of his fresh blood from a gash on his cheek is drowning my senses, reminding me that he's not altogether wrong for wanting protection from me. 

"Boys!" Possibelf screams. "Break it up, now!" 

Snow jumps back from me, startled by the venom in her voice. 

“Both of you, my office,  _ this instant,”  _ she snaps, walking away and expecting us to follow. We acquiesce without protest. 

As we leave the Dining Hall, Snow sends me a loaded glare, confirming what I already knew: this isn’t over. 

* * *

Dread turns my stomach as I muse over the endless torture of today. The damp air of the Catacombs feels as heavy as my heart while I chastise myself for my naivety. 

I can't believe I went to sleep last night half-convinced Simon Snow could be attracted to me. Crowley, he might be preoccupied with me—but for all the wrong reasons.

He's afraid of me. 

I'm not quite sure what prompted his renewed vigor for exposing me, but I can still imagine the taste of his blood, just from smelling the gash I left on his cheekbone. I spent the whole time we were in Possibelf's office ignoring her, too focused on keeping my fangs from dropping and giving me away. I haven't been feeding regularly enough, what with being busy being stalked by Snow, so the scent of him—buttery and fatty, tempting as a siren's song—was heady confined in that small room. I had to stop myself from sighing with relief when Possibelf dismissed me, keeping Simon back to have a few more words with him. 

I came straight to the Catacombs to feed, draining nearly a dozen rats and incinerating the carcasses, cognizant of the fact that Snow's itching for evidence. Now I'm so full of blood I can feel my stomach sloshing with my overindulgence and my cheeks warm with rare circulation. It's making me feel even more repulsive than I've felt all day. 

I bang my head against the stone wall, trying to drown out the intrusive thoughts. I can hear the cruel words in Simon Snow's condemning voice. 

_ Disgusting.  _

_ Dangerous.  _

_ Monster.  _

"Baz!"

I open my eyes, surprised by the sound of the real Snow's voice, and groan in annoyance. I should have known Snow would come here for me—he never backs down from a fight. Not from dragons, not from goblins, and certainly not from me. 

I can tell from the echo of his voice that he's still a few turns down the complicated maze of the Catacombs. I could run; I know these paths better than anyone. But Snow's not going to quit chasing. Now's as good a time as any to let him catch up. 

I stand up, squaring my shoulders. I steel myself for what he's going to say, building up my facade of indifference. I hear his footsteps grow louder and closer, and I wear my show of apathy like a shield, readying myself to defend against Snow's attacks.

But nothing—not even this wretched day—could have prepared me for what Snow has in his left hand. 

A wooden stake. 

I ball my shaking hand into a fist. I don't need to fake the contempt in my tone when I say: "Didn’t you hear Possibelf? When she said no more roughing around, I’m positive that included stabbing." 

He doesn't reply. He just scowls, raising the stake up between us, a less-than-subtle threat.

I sigh in exasperation. "Crowley, Snow. You've really stepped up the theatrics lately." 

"So have you," he says, his tone dripping in accusation. 

I wield my sarcasm like a defence. "I'm so sorry my typical routine of football practices and classes have so offended you." 

"You know what you did," Snow snaps impatiently. (As if  _ I'm  _ the one being hopelessly cryptic here.) 

"You're going to have to spell it out for me," I sneer. "I know you've really got sucked into vampire lore lately, but whatever Twilight might suggest, I'm not a mind reader."

Snow finally snaps. "You  _ thralled  _ me!" 

His words echo off the walls of the tunnel. For a moment, it's so quiet you could hear a pin drop. 

Then, I start laughing uncontrollably. 

"Crowley," I bark out through my chuckles.  _ "That's  _ what you think?" 

Snow's face burns red with rage. "That's what I  _ know!"  _

"Even if I  _ was _ a vampire, why would I  _ ever _ want to  _ thrall you?"  _

"I—I—" he stutters, frustration choking him. "To lure me in so you could attack me!" 

"I don't need a thrall to lure you. You follow me around like a puppy dog far too often already—why would I want more of your presence than I'm already condemned to?"

"Stop  _ lying!"  _ he screams, taking a threatening step towards me. 

I don't want to have to find out whether the wooden stake legend is true by testing the theory and letting Snow put the thing through my chest. I knock the weapon out of his hands, and it flies across the room, hitting the wall adjacent to us with a clang. He growls agitatedly, but doesn't move for the stake; instead, he keeps his blue eyes locked on me. 

"You're delusional," I growl. 

"You're a  _ monster."  _

The word, spit out like a curse, breaks through my fractured armour. 

I let myself consider his chilling accusation. 

Could I have thralled him without meaning to—without even knowing I was? 

Horror rushes through me when I realise the answer is yes. How many parts of my vampirism did I fail to notice at first? My body's adverse reaction to the sun, the growing ache in my gums, my running getting gradually faster, my body becoming increasingly stronger… all of my vampire traits took time to develop, and they were all thrust on me like a deadly version of puberty. Why would my thrall be any different? 

I want Simon Snow so badly that my body's manifested it for me; my vampire instincts took hold and decided to  _ compel  _ him to me. To give me a cheap, bastardised version of Simon Snow's undivided attention. 

_ That's why he looked at me like that in the locker room,  _ I understand.  _ He wasn't attracted to me—not really. I only made him think that.  _

My stomach churns with embarrassment and self-loathing. I should have realised why he was being so very  _ different  _ this time. Snow noticed, and it's disgusted him so badly that he was able to push through and resist a vampire's thrall. Crowley, it must have been horrific to him—the lust existing alongside the hatred. (I would know—fifth year was misery.) 

He's right—I really am a monster. 

"Fix me," Snow demands, breaking me out of my revelations. 

Shame floods my veins. I don't know how to fix it—I don't even know how I broke it in the first place. 

Undeserved rage takes over all semblance of logic. I want to cut him as deeply as he's cut me; I want to hurt him  _ back _ . This is his fault for making me love him so desperately, so thoroughly, that my body conspired against me to force him to give me breadcrumbs of his regard. 

"I can't fix you," I snap. "No one could fix  _ you,  _ Snow. You're a hopeless trainwreck." 

He opens his mouth to retaliate, but I only speak louder to drown out his response. 

"You're a brainless soldier, too stupid to question a word that comes out of your overlord's mouth. You're a useless mage who can't string a sentence together. Your own girlfriend didn't want you around—seven hells, your own  _ parents  _ didn't want you. And neither do I." 

I watch my words hit Snow like physical blows, precise and cutting. I see the moment he snaps—when his eyes darken with uncontrollable fury, when I know I've gone too far. 

"You're—I—you—that's—" he stammers out. I can hear the poorly concealed hurt in his tone underneath the anger. With a sick lurch in my gut, I notice tears forming in the corners of his eyes. I hate myself acutely for putting them there. 

I can't burn him without torching myself. 

I can't be here anymore—I can't ever win this fight with him. 

I move to the tunnel leading towards the exit, having to pass Snow as I try to leave. He catches my wrist and tugs me back towards him, spinning me around to see the rage clouding his features. He barely looks like himself as he hisses out, "I may be unwanted, but at least I'm not evil."

Before I can react, he yanks his necklace out from under his shirt and rips the cross off the chain with a snap of metal. He jabs the cross into the palm of my hand with ruthless force.

I yelp with shock and pain, jumping back in alarm. 

I don't close my hand into a fist as I should. Instead I stare down at my palm in horror.    
  


Proof, in the shape of a cross branded on my skin. 

I look up to see Snow gaping at the tattooed injury, like he can hardly believe his eyes—as if finally exposing me for what I am is somehow a shock to him. 

This burn is an undeniable, irrefutable confirmation of what Snow has been saying for years. It's the evidence he needs to bring me to the Mage, to turn me into the Council. The very thing he needs to destroy me is all right here, in the palm of my hand. 

Simon Snow has finally got what he's always wanted: the key to my downfall. 

"Baz…" Snow says in an incomprehensible tone. 

I don't stay to defend myself; there's no use. Instead, I do the only thing I can manage. 

I run. 

* * *

**Simon**

I stand alone in the Catacombs, trying to make sense of the wreckage. My mind starts whirring without my permission. 

Baz's cry of pain. 

_ Don't think.  _

The angry red scar marring his skin. 

_ Don't think.  _

The undeniable fear on his face. 

_ Don't think, don't think, don't think.  _

It's… it's what he deserved for what he's done to me! Flooding my head with thoughts of him, making himself the centre of my universe—using his vampire powers to  _ thrall  _ me!

Merlin. Baz really is a vampire. I knew that… of course, I already knew that. But, to see it laid out like that, the evidence branded into his hand… 

I shiver with revulsion at the memory of seeing the mark—of  _ causing  _ it. 

I didn't think! I just acted, frustrated from the long day of failing to unmask his plot, bruised from his sharp words and empty denials. 

He started this! He made me do it!

Didn't he? 

I can't stand all the confusion. I need someone to make sense of it all—I need Penny to explain this all to me. 

I make my way out of the Catacombs as quickly as I can, stumbling a bit in the darkened tunnels. When I escape the tangled pathways to the light of the White Chapel, I head for where Penny always is after dinner.

I turn heads when I enter the library. It’s clear everyone’s heard about my fight with Baz in the Dining Hall—they’re all whispering and staring. I ignore them all and walk towards the back of the room, to the quiet corner Penny’s claimed as hers. 

She lets out a sigh when she sees me approaching, her expression a mixture of relief and exasperation. 

**“Nothing to see here! Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves!”** Penny casts around us, effectively hiding us from our nosy classmates. 

“How furious was Possibelf?” she asks as I sit down across from her, putting my head into my hands. I grunt in reply, and she presses on: “How much trouble are you in?”

“A month of Saturday detentions,” I tell her. “Even though Baz only got two weeks.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Well, Baz wasn’t the one who started it.” 

“He punched me in the face!” 

“After you dumped holy water on him in the middle of the Dining Hall,” she reminds me. “Even though I  _ told  _ you that was a horrible idea.”

I groan. I should have known she’d say  _ I told you so;  _ she can never help herself. 

“But he did start it!” I protest. “By plotting against me!” 

Penny looks at the ceiling like the secret trick for patience is written up there. 

“New rule,” she says slowly. “From now on, you need to know  _ exactly  _ what Baz’s plot is before acting on it. You need cold, hard  _ evidence.  _ A  _ hunch _ is not enough for a day-long vampire crusade.” 

I feel my skin go hot. “Well, here’s the thing,” I reply, the gravity of the situation weighing down my words. “I got proof.”

Penny leans forward, intrigued by my solemnity. “What do you mean?”

“Well—okay. There was… something about all this I didn’t tell you.” 

I was embarrassed about the thrall—and all the things it made me think and feel. The way my heartbeat races every time Baz enters a room, the way my gaze lingers on his full lips when he smirks, the way I fantasize about his woodsy scent enveloping my senses. How I can’t stop watching him—while he practices, while he studies, while he sleeps—and thinking about how badly I’d like to brush the hair out of his eyes, look into his blue-grey eyes, lean in and…

“Baz thralled me!” I blurt out, cheeks reddening at the fantasy of Baz’s lips on mine. 

It’s silent for a beat. “How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve been thinking of him…” I take a deep breath, and whisper, “...romantically.” 

She gasps, her eyebrows flying up her forehead. “Simon…”

“I realised it yesterday,” I go on, wanting to get the whole story out before she can comment on the absurdity of my artificial feelings for Baz. “So I went up to the Mage’s office to see if he had anything that could help me. He’s out of town, but I know he has that hidden personal library, and...”

I pull out a book from my backpack. I set it down in front of her, and she looks down to read the title:  _ How to Catch a Vampire. _

“I found this, and decided to test some of the theories. Garlic, sunlight, mirrors, running water, holy water, and…” I gulp, taking my necklace out from under my jumper and whispering the last word. “A blessed cross.”

“Oh, no,” she gasps. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“He—he said I was—he made me—Penny, he  _ thralled  _ me! He  _ made _ me have feelings for him!” 

“No, Simon. He didn’t. He couldn't have,” she says seriously. “The thrall affects your  _ actions,  _ not your  _ feelings.” _

My brain goes fuzzy. I feel like a television set to the wrong dial.

“That’s not—no! But, I know—“ I don’t know what I know. “Why do you think that?”

Penny chews on her lower lip—her tell-tale sign of guilt. “After fifth year, I called Micah and told him your theory about Baz. He said American culture was a lot different towards vampires, and that he’d be able to get some information from some of his magickal contacts. He was able to get some research— _ real  _ research. Not that fear-mongering nonsense,” she says with a wave of her hand, gesturing towards  _ How to Catch a Vampire.  _

“But, but!” I stammer. “You always said you didn’t believe me!” 

She sniffs. “I never said that. I simply refused to encourage your bad behavior. I assumed it was triggering to Baz for… obvious reasons.” 

“What ‘obvious reasons’?” I ask. 

“Because, well. I mean, Simon,  _ honestly _ .”

I huff in frustration. “Honestly what?”

“You’ve really never thought about how Baz got turned,” she says, incredulity lacing her tone.

“Of course I’ve thought about it! I mean, his family must have arranged it to make him invincible? That’s why he came back for fifth year stronger, faster, taller…” 

His new appearance in fifth year was like a shock to my system. He'd always been a bit otherworldly, as if he was a step above the rest of us, even as a scrawny child. But seeing fifteen-year-old Baz on the top of the school rafters, the wind blowing in his hair, his skin shining like pearls… I knew there was something  _ more  _ to it. Something more to  _ him.  _

Penny just scoffs at my theory. “The Pitches are horribly bigoted about magickal creatures. They’d never turn their only heir.” 

“Okay, then what happened?” I snap impatiently. 

“Don’t you know how Natasha Pitch died?” she asks, her voice lowered with sympathy. 

Everyone knows how Natasha Pitch died. As a hero, defending the nursery from an attack from the Humdrum. From a clan of wild vampires. 

_ Oh.  _ Oh, no. 

I know what Penny’s getting at now.

“There’s no way…” I say, nausea tornadoing in my stomach. “But, he was only five years old then...”

Penny shrugs. “The vampires launched their attack on a nursery of children. I don’t think it’s a stretch they’d hurt one.” 

I try to imagine Baz as a child. An even smaller version of the eleven-year-old boy I met on my first day of Watford. Softer, less sharp. Innocent and scared. 

Grief for him takes the air out my lungs. 

“I burned him,” I admit. “With my cross. That’s my proof.” 

Penny looks at me, a mixture of pity and judgment in her expression.

“He—I thought he’d thralled me!” I try to defend myself. In a small voice, I ask, “Are...are you sure he didn’t?” 

Penny shakes her head resolutely. “Absolutely positive. He could have made you do something, but he couldn’t make you feel anything.”

“So that means…” I trail off. I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. 

Penny grabs my hand, squeezing firmly. Empathy is etched in every line of her face, her annoyance with me forgotten. 

She says what I already know is true. 

“Everything you feel for Baz is real.”

I let out the breath I was holding. Let her words sink in. 

Every thought that entered my head when I saw Baz undressed in the locker room. Every feeling that the sight of his devilish smile and cocked eyebrow inspires. Every moment of wretched hunger, of indescribable desire. All of it is gut-wrenchingly, heart-breakingly real. 

I fancy Baz Pitch—I've fancied him this entire time. And not because he forced me. 

Because he's ruthless, and clever, and fit. Because I can't help but be completely absorbed by him—because he's enchanting.  _ Enthralling.  _

But— _ Merlin. _ He  _ hates  _ me. He's always hated me, and that was before I spent all day trying to expose him as a vampire. Before I burned him with my cross and I got my proof that he's really a vampire. 

Fuck. I have to make this right. 

I stand up from my chair with a start, knocking my chair over and startling Penny. "I need to find Baz." 

Penny smiles shrewdly. "Don't you always?" 

I don't bother responding; I'm already running. 

* * *

I crash into our bedroom to find Baz furiously packing. 

"Baz," I say, panting from my sprint up the stairs. "Don't go." 

He glares at me. My heart aches when I see the wetness dampening his eyes. 

"Why?" he snarls. “You prefer your targets standing still?” 

I shake my head vigorously. "No, no—I’m not going to hurt you. I wouldn't." 

"You  _ wouldn't? _ Really?" He scoffs incredulously. “I’m supposed to believe that from  _ you. _ You, who dumped holy water on me in the middle of the Dining Hall in front of everyone? What was your goal, if not to hurt me?” 

My skin feels itchy with shame. I'm so lucky that didn't work—I can't imagine what I'd have done if it did. 

He sighs heavily, and stops packing. He sits down on his bed, crossing his legs. "I suppose there's no point in running now. When will they be here?" he asks coolly. 

“When will who be here?”

"The Mage and his merry band of numpties. I’m assuming they’re your reinforcements if you can’t finish the job yourself." 

“I didn’t do that. I'm not turning you in." 

"Of course you are," he snaps. "Wasn't that the point—to prove I'm a monster so they'd snap my wand and yank my fangs?" 

“I—” I choke out, sounding like the word was punched out of me. Guilt claws its way up my throat. “I’m sorry.”

He raises his signature eyebrow at me. "What do you care?" 

“I care about you." I try to swallow my nerves. Force myself to say what I really mean. I need to make him understand—I need to make him see. “I fancy you.”

Surprise paints over Baz’s features. His eyebrows drop and his lips fall open. 

Then, as quickly as it appeared, his open expression shuts closed; his mouth rearranges itself into a scowl. 

“You only  _ think  _ you fancy me, because you’re thralled,” he responds, bitterness heavy in his tone. 

I shake my head. “No, I  _ really  _ fancy you.”

His jaw clenches. “Snow,” he says slowly, sounding the words out like I'm a particularly dull child. “You hate me.”

I move to sit down next to him on the bed. I expect him to rebuff me, but he only narrows his eyes warily. 

“No, I don’t,” I say, smiling hesitantly. “I never did. Not really.”

**Baz**

Simon Snow is trying to kill me. 

“Crowley, Snow." I must have really scrambled his brains if he believes the nonsense coming out of his mouth. "You've petitioned the Mage to get me kicked out of school nearly every term since we were twelve." 

"I would have hated it if I succeeded," he says earnestly.

"You once tried to get me locked out of the gates. In the middle of January." 

He blushes. "I thought you were sneaking out to meet someone down at the caves." 

"You're really committing to this revisionist history lesson, huh?" I huff. "Alright. How about when you burned me with a  _ cross, _ only an hour ago?" 

I hold up my scarred palm, which is still burning an angry crimson. Snow's eyes lock on the ugly wound, and I hear his breath hitch in his throat. 

"Baz," he says softly, and I can hear the sound of his heart breaking in his tone. 

It all seems so painfully  _ real _ —like Simon Snow really, truly cares about me, not like he's been magickally tricked into affection. 

I want it so badly my hands shake. I want it so badly that I can't bring myself to stop him when he reaches for my injured palm. 

He holds my hand carefully, delicately, regarding me like I'm something precious. He pulls his wand out of his back pocket, and I can't find my voice to make a snide remark about proper magickal instrument storage. 

**"Kiss it better,"** he casts, his voice steady and tender. 

I huff. "That's not going to work," I tell him. "That's a—" 

He brings his lips to my skin, and a tingling sensation runs up my arm. At first, I think electricity sparked in my hand is just my body's reaction to being touched by Simon Snow. But then, I watch in amazement as my red, blistered palm transforms into smooth, grey skin. 

"But—" I whisper, my voice sounding a million miles away. I look into Simon's eyes, glowing with warmth. "But that's a family spell." 

He only shrugs. 

My fragile self-restraint shatters at the familiar gesture, and I lunge for him. 

**Simon**

Baz kisses just like he fights. Fiercely. Intensely. With everything he has. 

I match his passion, trying to show him my heart with my lips.  _ See, Baz,  _ I try to convey.  _ See how real this is.  _

I think he can feel it too. He's got his hands tangled up in my hair, tugging me towards him, leaving no space between us. 

This moment is exactly what I imagined: greedy and hungry and all-consuming. But I never could've pictured the details right. The way his coldness feels like a salve against my overheated skin. The slight tremble of his body, confessing his nerves. The feeling of fitting together like puzzle pieces, matching up so perfectly I can't believe it took so long for me to see the big picture. 

And not even in my most far-fetched fantasies could I have dreamed up the look in his eyes when we come up for air. Baz looks at me like I have the power of thrall—as if  _ he's _ the one who's hopelessly charmed by  _ me. _

"You really mean it," he whispers, sounding dazed. 

"I told you so." 

He scoffs, and I can see him planning a sharp retort. 

But I kiss his sharpness away until he melts like sugar on my tongue. 

I show him just how much I mean it. 

* * *

My boyfriend is absolutely captivating on the football pitch. 

He's just as ruthless on the field as he is in my bed. I watch him dodge defensive players with the cleverness of a faerie, and I can't help my enthusiastic cheering as he outwits the other team with his expert footwork. 

"Stop yelling directly into my ear," Penny complains. "You're going to make me go prematurely deaf." 

"I'm sorry." I smile at her. "But just  _ look  _ at him!" 

"Why should I bother? You look enough for the both of us," she grumbles. 

I'm too distracted to bother with a response. The minute’s ticking down at the end of the second half, and Baz is quickly approaching the opposing team's side of the pitch, as fast and bright as lightning. He kicks the football towards the goal, it goes soaring into the air, and…

The Watford crowd goes wild as the ball crashes into the net! 

I jump up and whoop for Baz. He turns straight towards me like he can hear my voice over all the noise (or maybe I'm just easy to spot in his purple practice shirt). 

He flashes me a charming smirk. (He always finds the time to shoot me cheeky looks during football. Handsome show-off.)

His teammates all run towards Baz, jumping on him into a celebratory dog pile. The whole crowd’s thrilled, screaming “Pitch, Pitch, Pitch!” in unison. 

Baz comes jogging over to the stands. My heart pounds in my throat—I’m still not over looking at him, now that I can admit that the feelings running through me aren’t hate or fear. It’s all desire and affection (and maybe even love). 

He stops right in front of me, looking right pleased with himself. I flick away the loose hairs from his ponytail off his forehead with my fingertips. 

“Like what you see, Snow?” His teases. His expression is joyful, clearly pleased from his performance in the match and my dedicated cheering. 

I smile. "It's not too bad.” 

I can’t stop myself from grabbing him by the back of the neck and pulling him into a snog. The entire crowd fades away, the screaming dulled to silence, as I kiss Baz Pitch. 

Crowley. I’m living a charmed life. 

**Author's Note:**

> The chest hair position expressed in this fic is NOT the author’s. 
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://annabellelux.tumblr.com)


End file.
